Year 708, March 18, Old Valendian Calendar

Two Years after the Battle of Rabanastre

The sound of Gabranth's boots striking the marbled floor echoed throughout the corridor, even as his mail clinked and his plates rattled. It was repetitive and it was metallic, doubtless irritating to one not used to it. But to a soldier like him, it was one of the most comforting sounds in all of Ivalice, a permanent reminder that he was clad in the very finest full plate mail that the Archadian Empire had at its disposal. Breastplate, gauntlets, pauldrons, platelegs, greaves, tasset... Together, they formed a behemoth of steel, complete with the horned, eyeless visage that was his and his alone among the Judge Magisters - those men and women who embodied the Law of Archadia, an authority that bowed to the Emperor and the Emperor alone.

It was a comfort he welcomed, this day. It is a comfort I need, he mused, somewhat bitterly.

A Judge Magister would not be called to the lower levels of the Imperial Palace for no good reason. A Judge, maybe, but not a Magister – not Gabranth. The Judge Magisters, five in number, were at the very top of the Imperial chain of command. Elite guard to House Solidor, they were effectively the commanders of the Imperial Army. All twelve fleets of it, a destructive force unrivalled in all the world, save for the Rozarrian Military. One did not call for a General's presence without good reason.

Nor did one call for the personal bodyguard of Emperor Larsa Solidor himself without good reason. But am I here as bodyguard, or as commander? Gabranth wondered. He was impatient to be done with this, for while he left Larsa in the hands of soldiers he trusted, he was not truly at ease unless he was near.

No, not even then, he noted dryly. Larsa was, after all, the very last of his line. If something were to happen to him...

He turned a corner, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was required, cape flowing behind him – black, like his mood, the red of the Empire emblazoned upon the center - before once more following him, occasionally pushed back by his tasset as he placed one leg in front of the other, over and over. Larsa coming to harm simply was not worth thinking about. It would be a disaster. It will not happen, he thought, simply, as though that were all it took to make it so. His left hand tightened around the hilt of the blade sheathed at his left hip, not quite a longsword and not quite a scimitar, its twin on his right hip but a few inches shorter. One to strike, one to parry. A style he was unused to – or had been, once.

He'd had years to adapt, since rising to his brother's station.

Behind his helmet, he lifted his eyes, letting them drift about. Lower level of the palace or not, it was still impressive, masterfully built with both function and beauty in mind. A marble floor of alternating grey hues met walls of white, banners bearing the black and red of House Solidor filling each pillar. To his left were pillars of stone, creating doorways that allowed the sun to shine through. Sconces for torches were on the walls, but for now they were unlit; there was simply no need save at night.

To his right, a door here, a door there, each of wood reinforced with iron and steel – and behind each, he knew there would be clerks and accountants, hard at work, fuelling the machine that was the Empire. It was a wide corridor, but easily defensible, even by a small number of soldiers. He was approaching yet another stairway, going down yet again, and as he proceeded down – ever careful not to fall, heavy as his armor was; what a travesty that would be, Judge Magister Gabranth tripping over the stairs! - his cape trailed after him, dragging itself along the steps after him like an eager puppy.

Gabranth heard voices, up ahead, some clear, others muffled by helmets. Almost there, then. Good. He was eager to get this over with, and return to what he was really here for. He passed a pair of clerks, clad in light greys and blacks as most state servants were. They had been muttering to each other, but at first sight of him, they immediately swept aside and gave him a wide berth, allowing him by. He never even looked at them. The voices grew louder the closer he came, no less intense, now accompanied by quiet murmurs of question and confusion, of speculation. A crowd, then.

And then, as he turned another corner to the left but a few meters away, he came to a stop, experienced eyes roving over the scene in front of him. Irritation at being called died, replaced by sudden discomfort – and understanding. Yes, he would be called for this, wouldn't he?

Ahead, a dozen meters away, a number of clerks and assorted civilians were gathered, not as a mob but as a loose crowd, occasionally angling or standing on tip toes in an attempt at looking past the phalanx in front of them. Imperial soldiers, helmets impassive masks not entirely unlike his own, clad in a dark grey of plate and mail, less fine than his own but no less effective. Oh yes, they were very effective, as he well knew, unable to count the amount of times his blade had clashed against them.

They were assembled in a straight line, tower shields in one hand and spears in the other, and they were closely knit, clearly preventing any from seeing past them to whatever lay beyond. Above them he could see other spears rising into the air, and Gabranth knew that there was another phalanx on the other side, no doubt guarding whatever lay within from another crowd. The question died on Gabranth's lips before he could speak it. There was only one thing that could possibly have caused this, he knew. This was not the first time.

"Make way for the Judge Magister!" Called one of the guards near to the centre, and immediately heads in the crowd turned, soon after stepping left and right, that they not be trampled beneath Gabranth's charge. At his approach, the guards gave way, allowing him past before seamlessly closing the line up again. They were well trained, after all – and this was not a difficult job.

As he passed by, Gabranth briefly turned his head to the left. "Disperse these crowds, have them return to their business," he said, quietly but with authority, and the soldier nodded his head once, turning to do just that, even as Gabranth proceeded forward past the line proper. He came to a stop just inside, and he stared, taking only a few tentative steps forward.

Blood marred the pristine marble floor, gashes of red scattered about the area here and there. Three soldiers in Imperial armor lay dead on the ground. They had not been moved, Gabranth could see; they had been left where they fell. One's sword remained in its scabbard; he had not even received the opportunity to draw it before being felled. The other two had their blades out, for all the good it had done them – blows to the legs and chest had slain them as surely as their comrade. Their armor was impeccable save for the blood; the plate was undamaged. It was the mail underneath that had been pierced.

Whoever had killed these men had been skilled, to hit the joints and the weak points of the armor so flawlessly – which tied in with the other bodies.

Two other bodies were nearby, both similar and completely different to the imperial soldiers. They wore little save for cloth, black in color, with hints of dark blue here and there. Each one had wielded a dagger in each hand, marred with blood – the weapons that had slain these soldiers. They were both dead, each of a stab wound, perhaps a bit larger than a stab from a sword had any right to be. Which left...

"Zargabaath," Gabranth said by way of greeting to his fellow Judge Magister, who stood to the side, likewise looking at the bodies, making no move to disrupt them. His helmet – a two-pronged thing that reminded him much of a bull's horns – was held between his left hand and his hip, exposing head and hair. He was an old man, hair and trimmed beard alike grey. His eyes, wrinkled as the skin around them were, held a note of compassion – and of concern. His armor was light, at least by the standards of a Judge; he lacked platelegs and armor on his arms, all the more to move quickly and rapidly, a trait that had saved him on more than one occasion.

Zargabaath was perhaps the most diplomatic and genuinely nice figure from the old Magisters, and – strictly speaking – was the sole survivor among them. A lesson to be learned there, methinks, Gabranth thought. He, like Larsa before him, served as a living reminder to Gabranth. Not all Imperials were like Bergen, or Vayne. Just like not all Dalmascans are like Queen Ashelia, or Vaan, Gabranth reflected. It was not a pleasant realization.

"Gabranth," came the rough voice in response, and Zargabaath inclined his head in a half-bow of sorts, even as he turned his attention back to the corpses. He gestured towards them with his right hand, even as Gabranth neared him, making no move to remove his own helmet. At Gabranth's glance, Zargabaath carried on; this was no time for pleasantries, after all.

"Two more, like before. Ten minutes ago, as I was leading these men forward on a routine patrol of the premises, the two charged out of that side door-" he said, accompanied by a gesture with his right hand that Gabranth followed, briefly staring at the open door in question even as Zargabaath continued, "-and rushed us. One died before he could draw his blade; the other two fell quickly, but bought me the time to draw my weapons. Perhaps they thought me too old to use them?" Zargabaath asked rhetorically, an empty attempt at mirth that Gabranth did not share. It died, quickly enough. Just like his men.

He simply stared – not at the soldiers, but at the two figures clad in black cloth. Assassins. Skirmishers. "Pendants?" Gabranth asked, and Zargabaath merely nodded once, mouth open lightly, releasing light breaths. Despite your jest, my friend, you are an old man, Gabranth thought, sober.

"There was little point in asking, was there?" Gabranth asked rhetorically, shaking his head even as he reached up to unclasp and remove his helmet, shaking his head briefly once more; the common rule of all helmets was that they were a nightmare for hair, even cut short as his was. A shaven beard of blonde adorned his jaw, hair more gold than yellow, flowing and medium unlike his brother's spiked and short. Even without the scar over his left brow and the set of his facial features, it was enough for people to tell; this was not the 'old' Gabranth, the hound of Gramis and Vayne. This was a different creature entirely.

They had grown used to it. What was done, was done.

"Rozarrians," Basch said simply, as though it were a curse.

"Rozarrians," Zargabaath confirmed, with a slow nod. Just like the last five times, Basch thought. He should have seen it coming; what else would Zargabaath call him down here for? He turned to the right to look at Zargabaath, even as he held his helmet – his brother's helmet, truly – in his right hand, staring at a man he would once had gladly cut down. A man who, he knew, he would grieve if ever he were to die. Not just because they were allies, but because they were friends.

Over their conversation, Basch could hear the guard beginning to move forward, still in that line; they were clearing away the crowds as far as they dared, encouraging them to move on and away. Best that nobody knew what was happening here, for now; best that nobody knew that Rozarrians were sending assassins to cull off their men, had sent assassins after a Judge Magister. Larsa's command, one that Basch and Zargabaath alike had agreed to without argument. Nobody wanted another war. Except for the Rozarrians, apparently, Basch corrected himself.

"The guard are clearing away the crowds," Basch said, even as Zargabaath turned his attention back to him. "I will inform the Emperor post-haste; clear away the bodies like before," he said. Not that he needed to; it had become routine for the two of them, by this point. The soldiers would receive proper burials, and their families due compensation.

The assassins, on the other hand...well, they needed all the information that they could get. And while they could not raise these unwilling souls from the dead, they could at least examine the bodies. Any information was more than he expected, by this point.

"I'll send word if we find anything new," Zargabaath said, without much hope in his voice. And Basch understood, entirely - for the bodies only ever contained enough to confirm they were Rozarrian, an oddity that had Judge Magister and Emperor alike stumped. Why would the Rozarrians want the Archadians to know who was attacking them? Basch shook his head soon after, even as he lifted his helmet to pull it back on. Silly question, Basch thought, as once more he became Gabranth. He was no politician – but he was a soldier, and he knew when somebody was chomping at the bit for a fight. But why? Why would they want a war? wondered Basch.

Gabranth reached up with his now freed right hand to briefly pat Zargabaath on the shoulder, even as he turned away and broke through the Imperial line once more, returning from whence he came, to deliver his ill tidings.

"How many?" The Emperor asked, voice no less youthful than it had been two years ago. At least the burden of Empire has not stripped that much from him, Basch thought, thankful.

They were in his private quarters. The sun shone through glassless windows behind the Emperor's seat and desk, a room-wide balcony that surrounded the place; indeed, they were less quarters and more a space for relaxation and lounging. Floor, walls, ceiling and pillars alike were marble, his table made out of class and a chair of the finest wood and velvet. Only the very best for the Archadian Emperor, after all.

The table was large enough to fit five, though the other four chairs were on the opposite side; for now, empty, the Emperor was free to view the small waterfalls in front of him, spilling into a small canal-like pool to the side, a similar spectacle behind him. It was a comforting enough place; the sound of flowing water, of a light wind blowing, of birdsong in the distance. A cloudless day, with the sun shining. Dark tidings, for such a day.

"Three," Basch said immediately, aware of precisely what Larsa was asking him. He always asked for his own men before the enemy's. He cared more for preserving lives than taking them. Hands clasped behind his back, between cape and backplate, he stared into the distance, watching a number of pigeons take flight towards the rest of Archades. "Judge Zargabaath was with them," Basch continued, "and felled his attackers, two in number. Both are dead. This was thirty minutes ago," he concluded, never once turning his attention away from the horizon.

Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, Emperor of the Archadian Emperor and Last Scion of House Solidor, sighed. Leaning forward with his elbows on his table, he placed his quill back into its inkpot and reached up with gloved hands to cover his face with them, no doubt rubbing at eyes both weary and sorrowful. He had not asked after Zargabaath, of course. He knew Basch would have said something had there been need. "Fourteen, then. Fourteen had died to these assassins, and we are no closer to discovering why," Larsa said, fatigue in his voice.

"The why is clear," Basch countered, with a sideways glance at his Emperor. "They want war."

Larsa shook his head briefly, even as he leaned back in his chair, staring at one of the waterfalls. "We don't know that. We don't know if this is House Margrace – or any House at all. It could be a single party, a splinter faction. It could be completely unrelated to Rozarria. It could be somebody baiting us to attack them," Larsa continued. "We don't know, and I dare not act without the knowing. Too much is at stake."

Basch grunted in understanding; it was a conversation they had had already, five times over, each time the assassins struck. "I would pay much to discover how they continue to access the Palace," he growled, briefly flicking his gaze to Gabranth's helmet. The faceless visage stared at him from Larsa's table. Accusing.

For a moment, his eyes swept over Larsa's desk, finding the map to the right, closest to Basch and his helmet. Archadia in the north and the east, covering almost all of the continent of Valendia; Rozarrian covering almost the entirety of the western continent Ordalia, with small slices of Kerwon to the south being taken by one side or the other, more outposts than anything else. And trapped in between the two continents was the area commonly referred to as Galtea, where the Republic of Landis – Basch's own homeland, long since devoured by the Archadian Empire – and the Kingdoms of Nabradia – likewise taken in the war, four years past – and Dalmasca lay. Dalmasca...

The thought leapt to his mind, not for the first time – and not for the first time did he ask. "What of Queen Ashelia? Does she have similar troubles?" Basch asked, perhaps a bit too formally. It still rankled at him, at times, that he was at Larsa's side instead of hers. He understood the need, of course, but still...

"We have not received word, no," Larsa said, a note of compassionate understanding entering his voice. "And I dare not inform her. She can be somewhat...susceptible to wroth, as you know. Dalmasca as the battlefield or no, I do not see her sitting idly by if she were to know we were attacked here in the Palace," Larsa explained. "And I fear she might do something rash."

Basch could not disagree. Not at all. "Then we keep our peace, and pray Zargabaath discovers something of import?" He asked, with a glance towards his Emperor. A simple, solemn nod answered him, and Basch turned his head once more to the horizon with a sigh. "This won't last, Your Majesty," he said, formally. "Never before have they attacked a Judge Magister. Whoever 'they' are, they are growing increasingly insistent. We cannot turn the other cheek forever. Sooner or later, they will do something...worse," Basch concluded, for lack of a better word.

"I know," Larsa sighed, once more taking up his quill, left hand moving the paper before him. "But for now, it is all we can do." He paused suddenly, quill almost touching the paper in front of him, before he settled back. "Unless..." A note in his voice caused Basch to look at him, left brow raised ever-so slightly in question.

"Your Majesty?" Basch prompted, as Larsa's silence stretched. As though awoken, Larsa stirred, glancing at Basch briefly, before looking to the paper once more. He properly reached down and grabbed what he was writing, screwed it up, and dropped it into a small bin beside his table, causing Basch's brow to raise ever-so much more. A glint shone in Larsa's eye as he began to write on a new sheet, briefly glancing towards Basch, with a light smile that was both sly and daring, making his face seem that much younger.

"I wonder where Balthier is?" Larsa asked, simply.

Understanding washed over him, and for a moment, he shared his Emperor's smile. Perfect, he thought.

So!

There we have it, prologue. Hopefully I've whet your appetite enough for you to keep going once I update this thing. Whether I have or haven't, feel free to leave a review to tell me why; I can't improve if I don't know what I am and am not doing right.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this little opener. Feel free to leave theories on what's going on and all that stuff in a review too, if you so wish. I've no set date for the next update, but it shouldn't be all that long; wouldn't want to lose momentum, after all.

So, see you next time I guess?